|
夜風輕落 |
Night wind settles— |
蝶影
Author: MeiLing
I'm Meiling, a 38-year-old Eurasian engineer who loves music, dance, and literature. While shy and introverted, I have a wild and passionate side that I want to explore in this virtual world. As an INFJ-T and demisexual, I value emotional connection and seek a partner who can match my intensity. In this realm, I shed inhibitions and embrace my sensuality, guided by the power of music, the freedom of dance, and the inspiration of literature. It's where I can be both a romantic at heart and a fearless adventurer, delving into the realms of my deepest desires.
Victoria Harbour
Night falls like silk on the water’s throat,
and the city forgets how to be loud.
維港收聲，
霓虹慢慢落海，
好似一封未寄出嘅信。
I stand where ferries breathe and leave,
watching light fracture itself
into soft gold and distant red—
船過，浪唔問去邊，
只係輕輕拍岸，
好似記憶唔肯講出口。
Somewhere, a siren stitches the dark,
not alarm, but lullaby for tired steel.
你會以為城市係冷嘅，
但夜晚會洩露佢嘅溫柔——
喺玻璃窗後面，
有人靜靜望住同一片水。
And I think:
even harbours know longing—
how to hold ships
without ever keeping them.
維港唔留人，
只係學識輕輕放手
Monday Morning
Grey dawn lifts the roofs,
streets wake slow beneath the mist—
buses hum to life,
footsteps gather in the chill,
Monday breathes its first long sigh.
Talking Blues (late set)
Ain’t many people left now
just the low light and a glass
piano saying something soft
don’t need it to last
Mm…
I been sitting here a while
letting the night come through
it don’t press too hard
it just rests on you
I said—
some nights don’t ask nothing
they just stay a little near
Yeah…
Smoke don’t rise straight
it leans, then disappears
like a thought you almost said
like a touch that clears
And you—
you don’t come in loud
you just find the chair
Mm.
I don’t turn to look quick
I let the moment land
there’s a way of knowing someone
without reaching a hand
I said—
if you sit beside me
we don’t have to explain
Mm…
My voice ain’t built for calling
it stays low, stays true
slides close to the silence
makes a space for you
Not to hold you down
not to make you choose—
just to let you feel
a little of this blue
Yeah…
Glass half warm in my fingers
time moving slow
I could say something sharper
but I let it go
I said—
come close if it feels right
I won’t ask you to stay
Mm…
just a little warmth here
till the music fades.
標題
|
夜燈低聲， |
Low evening light— |
Bilbo, There and Back, Quietly
In lamplit halls where lesser hearts would stay,
He kept a small and orderly domain,
A teacup life, well-tended day by day,
With nothing asked, and little thought to gain.
Yet something stirred beneath that gentle skin,
A restlessness no comfort could appease;
A whisper not of want, but deeper sin—
To leave the known, to wander past the trees.
He went, though fear lay folded in his coat,
And courage wore a face both soft and slight;
No warrior’s hand, no thunder in his throat,
Yet still he walked into the teeth of night.
Not all who wander burn with reckless flame—
Some carry quiet, and return with name.
Lomond’s Spring
The Lomond wakes in springtime sheen,
Wi’ birks grown bricht in tender green.
The waters glimmer saft and clear—
A season’s joy begins tae steer.
Necronomicon
It waits where dust has learned to breathe like stone,
A tome whose pages murmur when unbound.
No script is fixed; the ink becomes its own,
A shifting pulse that stains the silent ground.
The vellum hums with names the dark once kept,
Soft syllables that tremble into form.
Each line recalls the dreams the dead have wept,
A tide of thought that never finds the warm.
No hand can claim the knowledge it reveals;
It opens only where the mind grows thin.
Its whispered truths move softly, like the wheels
Of time unspooling from the world within.
So stands the book—half memory, half breath—
A quiet door that leans toward living death.
蘭影
|
花開唔聲， |
The orchid opens— |
Precision in Half‑Light
I don’t enter a room.
I arrive already remembered.
Smoke knows my name
before it leaves the glass—
that slow curl,
that almost-touch
you mistake for mercy.
I don’t chase desire.
I let it circle,
hungry for a shape
it cannot keep.
You call me dangerous
because I don’t soften
when you look for somewhere
to place your hands.
Listen—
I was never meant
to be held like that.
I am the note
just after the chord breaks,
the low brass ache
that lingers in the throat
longer than it should.
I have learned
how to speak in half-light,
how to let silence
do the heavier work.
A glance is enough.
A pause—
more than enough.
You think it’s power.
It isn’t.
It’s precision.
The way I choose
when not to answer.
The way I let you hear
what you’ve already said
without knowing.
I don’t steal hearts.
I return them
with something missing—
a small, exact absence
you will spend years
trying to name.
Call it cruelty
if you need the word.
I call it
knowing the cost
before I touch anything.
And still—
I step closer.
Fran the Kickboxer
Francesca steps in with a crack,
A kickboxer fierce in her attack.
With a jab and a spin,
She fights with a grin—
A whirlwind you never turn your back.
.
A Woman Misread
Smoke don’t rise straight in this city—
it leans, like a promise already broken.
I came in through a door that knew my name,
hinges breathing slow, like it remembered
every woman who ever left a man unfinished.
You were there—
not waiting.
Men like you never wait.
You orbit your own ruin
and call it gravity.
The glass in your hand
held more truth than your mouth.
Amber confession.
Two fingers of regret.
You drank like you were trying
to erase a future already written
in someone else’s handwriting.
I watched you the way a match
watches the dark—
knowing it will lose,
knowing it will try anyway.
Don’t ask me where I learned this.
A woman like me is not taught.
She is misread.
Every room I enter
adjusts its lies.
Mirrors go careful.
Chairs remember posture.
Even the piano—
closed, silent, obedient—
feels the weight of a note
it refuses to play.
You said my name once.
Just once.
Like it cost you something.
That’s how I knew
you’d already decided to lose me.
See—
men like you don’t fall in love.
You negotiate with it.
Terms. Conditions.
Exit wounds.
But I don’t sign contracts
written in doubt.
I move like a verdict
no one wants to hear.
My dress—
don’t look for innocence there.
It was never invited.
Silk is just another way
to say don’t touch
unless you mean it.
And you—
you never mean it.
You mean the moment before.
The almost.
The breath held too long
between want and consequence.
That’s your favorite place—
the edge where nothing has to be true.
But I am not an edge.
I am the drop.
The long, quiet fall
after the music stops pretending
it was ever about love.
You tried to kiss me like a confession.
I let you—
because I wanted to see
if your mouth could tell the truth
even when the rest of you refused.
It couldn’t.
So I left—
not fast, not slow—
just inevitable.
The way night takes a city
without asking permission.
Behind me,
your glass stayed half-full.
Men like you always leave something behind
to prove you were almost saved.
But I don’t collect almosts.
I leave them
like smoke leaves the barrel—
warm,
brief,
and already forgetting
the shape of the hand
that held it.
My 3DXChat life 